


Days of the Mango Tree

by LaMaldita



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Brazil, M/M, Magical Realism, Portuguese, Romance, South America, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1442272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaMaldita/pseuds/LaMaldita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allen is sent on a reconnaissance mission to Brazil. Unfortunately for him, Tyki happens to be there too. Allen is kidnapped and held prisoner. A tale of colonial opulence, tropical downpours, old magic and unlikely love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. O Embaixador

Allen Walker stepped off the ship's gangplank and onto the dock, reeling a little from the solid sensation of land beneath his feet. The white-hot sun beat down on the back of his neck, and he regretted for the umpteenth time in a minute putting on his black exorcists' coat that morning. It had certainly seemed much cooler on the water, even as they had pulled in to the bustling marina. Allen glanced up at the sky that hung like a dome of pale lapis over them, searching for a shred of cloud that might tell tale of merciful rain, but there was not even a dream of liquid in the shining blue above.

The Finders beside him were wiping their brows, looking as if they would melt in their heavy cloaks, and Allen sighed terribly, shifting at the uncomfortable prickly feeling that had begun to radiate across his chest and the back of his neck. Well, it was not so much prickling as a curious _buzzing,_ a sensation that he felt he knew, yet could not place.

A black carriage pulled up beside them with a great clattering, its African driver wearing a tall top hat but no shirt on his age-scarred back. He nodded at them slowly and they entered the carriage, settling against the red plush of the interior. The driver shut the door with a loud report and the air was suddenly stifling, as if the movement had sucked all the oxygen out of the cab. Allen fought momentarily with the window, trying to force it open, but settled down once he realized the futility of movement in such heat. The carriage jerked clumsily into motion as the horses started into a trot, and they were swept into the mayhem that was the outer marina.

The heat rising from the yellow flagstones of the marina brought a scent of dust and heady jasmine from the ladies' perfumed shoes. Allen watched as they passed by brightly coloured stalls and the mulatto dock workers gambling in the shade, their skin glowing from the sun and their laughs loud and musical. A few waved at the passing carriage, shouting welcome over the noise of the streets. As they passed into the wealthy quarter, great mansions rose up on either side, their whitewashed walls cracked and abused by the relentless sun. Even the most well-kept manors could not resist the force of its rays, paired with the terrible humidity.

Allen wondered at the lack of people out on the streets, not knowing that in the bold light of the afternoon the rich retreated into their homes, and the mansions hung heavy with the perfume of orchids and wild irises as the women retired to their rooms, fated to stay there until sunset, as was customary to preserve their aristocratic skin.

Presently they came to the estate of the ambassador, enclosed by a threateningly ornate iron fence. The gatekeeper—a handsome black man in his thirties—sprang to his feet and unlocked the towering gate, letting it swing inward with a rusty complaint as the carriage passed through.

The ambassador's house was a large, stately building of red brick, and Allen had the suspicion that the ambassador had tried as best he could to replicate Kensington Palace, despite the design not being meant in the least for tropical heat. The effect was rather ostentatious.

They were met at the door by the first white man Allen had seen at the house yet, and ushered in.

The main hall was extremely grand, tiled in white Greek marble with tasteful gold-plated wall sconces and several less-than-tasteful bronze statuettes. A great potted banana attempted to suffocate Allen with a thick leaf as he passed the threshold, and one of the Finders was stabbed meanly by the fronds of a spiky palm.

"Come this way, sirs." Said the butler, directing them through another doorway.

As they passed the swinging kitchen door, Allen noticed several Africans cooking and stoking a blazing stove fire. "The ambassador employs many black servants, I see." He noted to the butler.

The butler looked surprise, then regarded him snootily. "Servants? Good heavens no, sir, those are the _slaves._ "

"You keep slaves in this country?" Allen said, barely hiding his appall.

The butler went on, turning his nose up more with each word. "Ever since trading from Africa became illegal forty years back, it's been so hard to find good help. These are some of the last obedients in Rio."

Presently, they came to a massive, well-polished door decorated with hideous cherubim-shaped door-knockers, and the butler stopped, causing Allen to very nearly crash into his poker-straight back.

The butler knocked almost inaudibly on the door and a sound like someone coughing words came faintly through. With a touch from the butler, the door swung smoothly inward on its ornate hinges and Allen found himself face-to-face with the ambassador. He was very much struck by the anticlimactic nature of the whole event.

The ambassador was a short, bearded, walrus-like Englishman stuffed into a foppish brocade waistcoat. He looked rather like a pale dumpling, and Allen could not quite bring himself to take the man seriously as he spoke sternly to them in a voice like a growling bulldog.

"We've been having some trouble with these demons lately—they attacked the port in large numbers just over a month ago. Thousands of pounds in damage." He coughed, thick mustache convulsing as he did so. "We are unsure of the true reason for which they are attacking _here_ of all places, but we suspect that someone in the city may be in possession of Innocence."

Allen stood listening, absently flexing his perspiring fingers. The thin gloves were sticking to them quite maddeningly, but courtesy prevented him from removing them. He raised a hand, feeling a bead of sweat spiral down his wrist. "May I ask a question, sir?"

"Yesyes," coughed the ambassador. "Of course, my boy."

"Excuse my boldness, but why did you not call the South American branch for this? Response time would have been cut considerably."

Another fit of growling coughs. Allen wondered if the humidity could affect one's constitution.

"Of course we considered _that_ , my boy. But their success record is somewhat lower than the European branch's." He frowned, causing deep crevasses to form in his fat face, and he began muttering to himself. "Something to do with Señor Guzman's less-than-sober habits, I'll warrant."

He coughed again, this time so alarmingly that the finders moved to catch him in case he fainted from his red-faced exertion.

"We will begin investigation tomorrow morning." He wheezed. "Take some rest. Frederick, show him to his room."

The butler appeared at Allen's elbow, silently guiding him out of the office with a gentle force that betrayed his cordially masked authority. They ascended the marble steps, and Allen was glad for the coolness of the carven banister under his hand, letting his fingers tarry along its white surface.

"This is your room, sir." Said the butler, indicating a door to their left. "Your luggage will be brought shortly."

"Thank you." Allen said, opening the door.

The room was roughly the same size as his own at the Headquarters, though much more elaborate in the decor. The walls were painted cream (or perhaps they were white, only stained by the humid air as were many things) with elaborately carved white wainscoting all along them. Allen found it rather contrived to allow expense on such a thing as _wainscoting_ , but he ignored it, and cast open the little window to air out the room. The furnishings were simple; a cot, a little nightstand with a pitcher of water, a slanted desk with a chair. Someone had put a little clay vase with a flower in the inkwell of the desk, and filled the drawer with paper. Allen toed off his boots and settled down on the cot, sighing as the springs creaked under his slight weight. He turned on his side and closed his eyes, fully intending to take a nap, perhaps dispel the lingering nausea from the stuffy carriage ride, but found his mind racing with a terrible unease. He spent some time flipping pillows and rolling about until he became quite tangled in the sheets, and gave up with a defeated sigh. He pulled on his boots and retied his thin necktie, checking that he looked presentable in the small mirror opposite the bed, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Allen knocked on the doorway of the ambassador's office, waiting politely until the man looked up.

"I'm going to get a little air." He said, holding his hands behind his back.

"All right," Said the ambassador, stroking his mustache. "But don't wander far, my boy. These Brazilians, they'll rob you blind if you're not careful."

The young man bowed and turned, laughing inwardly again at the rotund official. Once at the door, he reached for his Exorcist's coat, then decided against it and walked out into the hot midday sun.

He wandered down the cobblestone streets, taking in the maddening whirl of sounds and smells that was the city. Sailors and vendors of all races called out to the fine ladies who teetered by in their heels and garish hoopskirts like teacakes covered in powdered sugar, wilting a little more with each minute in the exceptional heat.

He turned a corner, still daydreaming, and watched rows of fishermen cleaning their morning catch, the silver scales flying up in showers of brilliant stars, covering the dark feet of the fishermen and transforming them into the mermen of children's stories.

He was brought back to reality when a good-natured African woman with a straw hat on her head offered him a slice of dripping mango from her cart to ward off the heat, which he ate with relish. She laughed, flashing teeth like ivory as he jumped to catch a trickle of bright juice running down his chin, and continued on, bracelets jangling.

A few men sitting on the stone breakwater called out to him;

"O menino não está com calor?"

"Está quente, não?"

Allen laughed stiffly, not knowing what to say. He waved and smiled, hoping that was a safe response. The men waved back.

He smiled, drifting off again as the sun beat down upon his head, and rounded another corner, glad of the shade that the buildings provided. This street was quieter than the rest, perhaps a back alley. Allen briefly remembered the ambassador's words and pulled off his left glove, ready to spring into action in case he was assaulted. He was so intent on looking behind him that he failed to notice the finely dressed young man that had appeared in front of him.

"Well, well. Fancy meeting you here. You look lost, exorcist."

Allen's blood seemed to turn to pins and needles (he marveled, a little, at the chill he felt despite the terrible heat) as he recognized the voice. He spun around, catching a glimpse of the smug face as he tried to attack, and then the blackness spilled across his vision and he felt himself fall.

* * *

_Translation for Portuguese words in this chapter:_

" _O menino não está com calor_ _?"—Is the boy not feeling hot?_

" _Está quente, não?"—It's hot out, isn't it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pretty much survive on burnt offerings and good reviews so if you liked this story, please take a minute and write some feedback so I know what I'm doing right! Obrigado~


	2. Sanguinho

"Forgive me, menino _,_ I've made your nose bleed. Though if I may say so, your blood _is_ a lovely colour. "

Allen glared as best he could for the blood dripping over his lips. He guessed that Tyki had hit him to knock him out, banging his nose in the process. He somehow doubted an accident. Tyki only smiled charmingly in response, showing straight white teeth like small tiles lined up neatly between his lips.

Despite the grueling heat he wore a suit, though his silk hat was in his hand. Allen knew the striking dark face, the elegant eyes the colour of new saffron, the neat row of black crosses marring the smooth forehead. He could _feel_ the danger emanating from him.

The Noah let his rapacious eyes drift over the mother-of-pearl whiteness of the boy's skin, and Allen cursed himself with every dreadful imprecation he knew for having been so careless, because every time he encountered Tyki Mikk, he was rent in two; his instincts screamed danger, telling him to run, but there was some evil part of him who always wanted more.

Tyki gave a slow smirk. He could _hear_ the boy's pulse hammering within his throat, fast and surprisingly strong.

Allen wished he could remember more hexes that he could lay upon himself. He felt a bead of sweat roll hesitantly down his back.

"Why are you here?" He demanded. "Did you follow us?"

Tyki rolled his yellow eyes, smiling. "Do not flatter yourself, querido. I was visiting a friend, actually." He paused, then laughed. "I _do_ have friends, you know. Yes, I came here to visit him last month, and decided to stay a little longer."

Allen glared at him, his grey eyes frigid. "Is this his house? Did you kill him?"

"No, I own this house," The Noah laughed, but the sound was laced with bitterness. "It belonged to my original family."

Allen watched as the other sauntered about the room with a supple ease that rivaled the jaguars that supposedly came down from the jungle to wander the streets at night.

"But what brings you here, _Allen Walker_?"

"That doesn't concern you." "Oh, but it _does._ Perhaps there is Innocence here, or perhaps you came looking…" He took up a wine glass from the liquor cabinet across the room. "...To kill me? How far off am I, Mr. Walker?"

"I assure you that—"

"Ah." A gloved hand was held up, signaling silence. "It's quite all right, darling. You couldn't kill me if you tried. _However_ , now that I have you, I regret that I must keep you here, for my…our mutual safety." Laughter rang beneath his words as he took up an unmarked bottle and poured a dark liquid into his glass, staining the crystal with a colour like tainted garnet.

Allen's eyes widened a little. "Is that…blood?"

"No, darling, it's Cabernet. You think I would be drinking blood? How delicious." he chuckled, taking a sip from the elegant glass, "You are too young to drink, I assume? How old are you, querido _?_ "

Allen stared at the bloodstain on his knee, now turning brown as it dried, and did not answer. The Noah's highly polished shoes came into focus in his periphery, and his chin was guided by a gloved hand to look his captor in the eyes.

"I asked you a question, meu amor _._ How old are you?"

The fair boy tore his eyes away. "Si…Sixteen."

"Really? An exorcist, so young?" The dark man paused. "Did they take you from your family?"

Allen was surprised at the nearly indiscernible thread of concern lacing the Noah's rich voice. "No," he said. "I came of my own accord. I have no family."

Tyki stepped back, rubbing his chin. "I see." He let his eyes wander lazily over the young exorcist's body, his gaze coming to rest on the cursed left hand, bound to the head of the narrow bed. He considered it for a while, but said nothing, appearing deep in thought.

"What do you want with me?" Allen asked.

The dark man looked mildly at him. "I just explained that, querido. Your questions are tiresome. Perhaps I should tear out your heart." He said, reaching a gloved hand towards the boy's chest.

"Go to hell." Allen spat, trying to twist away from the threatening appendage.

"Touchy." Tyki smirked, drawing his hand back. "We're all going the same way in the end. We just all take a different road to get there."

"Is that so? Kill me, then. I don't care."

"My dear, I was joking. Why would I kill you so soon? That would ruin my fun."

"Kill me, Mikk. Anything would be better than having to waste my time _amusing_ you." His eyes adopted a haughty glaze. "I pity you, really. You're nothing but a savage, a pitiable concretion of mere lust."

Tyki's beautiful panther eyes recovered their gleam in the radiant heat of his anger, and he lashed out and struck Allen across the face.

"I'll deal with you later." He said coolly. Allen could hear the sting, like the edge of a razor, in his voice. He stalked off, rounding the corner into the drawing room, and then he was gone.

Tyki sighed, stripping off his socks and flinging them carelessly over his shoulder. The bathtub steamed slightly, and he set his glass of wine down beside it before climbing in, clothes and all.

He stretched out his long legs, slim black pants clinging and darkening with water as he rested his feet on the porcelain tub rim. He watched his white dress shirt billow faintly beneath the surface of the water, reacting like pale kelp to the tide, and tried to uncrease his brow.

After a moment he picked up the delicate glass that he had set beside the tub, considered it for a moment, and let the dark liquid fall in a slow, steady percussive, staining the grout with purple. _A pitiable concretion of mere lust, he says. How vile._

* * *

 

_Portuguese in this chapter:_

_Menino: Boy_

_Querido: My dear/darling_

_Meu amor: My love_


	3. Vinho

As the bright rays of the noonday sun crept through the Venetian blinds and warmed his face, Allen awoke to see Tyki leaning in the doorway, a wine glass in his hand, watching him quietly with those cat-like eyes.

"Good day, querido." He said. "I take it you slept well?"

"Why are you keeping me here?"

Tyki ignored him, moving towards the bed. "I do hope the restraints did not…mark you too much?"

"Let me go, Mikk."

"Out of the question."

He considered the boy mildly, one elegant hand brushing over his jaw in thought. He pulled the chair from the desk over and sat down, crossing one long leg over the other.

"Your voice sounds a little hoarse, my dear. Are you thirsty? Here, drink this." He placed his glass on the wicker table that stood beside the bed, courteously wiping the rim with his linen handkerchief.

"No, thank you."

"Don't be ridiculous, querido _._ Have some wine."

"I don't drink."

"You do now. It's not safe to drink the water here, you'll get sick. We'll start with something light." He raised his hand and snapped his slim fingers, and a young black woman appeared in the doorway. Allen noticed that her eyes were not the typical brown colour of her kin, but a startlingly pale blue, like the bright morning sky.

"Bianca, traga-nos um Rose, por favor."

The woman nodded, her wiry braids swaying. "Sim senhor." She said, and left.

Allen stared at the dark man. "You keep slaves, I see." He said with audible disgust.

"Of course not. Slavery is a disgusting thing—it is a marvel they haven't totally abolished it yet." He frowned in displeasure. "They say this is a _modern_ colony when it is steeped in vile old traditions. I pay Bianca every week."

"Yet you keep me here as a captive."

"Ah, but captivity is different, querido."

"Bondage is bondage nonetheless. Do you keep pets?"

"No. Animals should not be caged."

"Humans are animals."

"But you are different. As you are a danger to me I am forced to detain you for my own wellbeing. It is not the same with a parrot or a monkey."

Bianca returned with two wine glasses balanced on a painted tray. She seemed completely focused on balancing them without so much a quiver, her pale eyes fixated on the elegant vessels. Tyki stood and took the glasses from the tray. "Obrigado, linda." His voice was soft and kind with her. "Como está sua mãe?"

She smiled, showing even white teeth. "Melhor, obrigado senhor."

"Muito bom. Diga-lhe olá para mim."

"Sim senhor."

The girl left the room, bare feet padding softly away on the white marble. Tyki placed a glass in front of Allen on the wicker table, and settled himself back into the chair. "As I was saying, if you were a parrot, I would not keep you as I would know your only intent would be to leave. But you're not, and I know that we are natural enemies, so I must ensure that you will not kill me. Besides the fact…" He said, gazing with his golden eyes over the rim of the glass, "You are _far_ more interesting than a bird."

Allen felt a fire kindling in his cheeks. He hoped dearly that his elegant captor wouldn't notice, or attribute it to his fair English skin reacting to the heat.

"You're blushing, meu amor." Tyki noted, casually undoing the top two buttons of his white shirt. He picked up a piece of paper from the table next to him and fanned himself gently, small strands of his hair fluttering with the movement. "I hope I have not made you uncomfortable?"

Allen ground his teeth in vexation. He hated rhetorical questions, almost as much as he hated the Portuguese's slow, easy smirk and his mock-gentlemanly manner.

"Drink your Rosé. It won't do for you to die of thirst."

The white-haired boy glared at the glass as if it were about to turn into a snake.

"Is it poison?" he asked bluntly.

Tyki cocked an eyebrow (a charming hereditary ability inherited from his father). "You are mistaken, my love. I have no intention of killing you."

Allen lifted the delicate glass carefully, considering the liquid inside. It was between the colour of just-opened roses and the blush of one's cheek, delicately fragrant and shot with sunlight from the open window. He took an experimental sip, letting the alcohol spread gently over his tongue, leaving subtle traces of fruit and almond as it went.

The older man leaned forward intently. "Well? What do you think?"

Allen looked up, meeting his eyes with surprise. "It's…nice."

Tyki smiled, but this smile brought a faint light to his eyes, like the fleeting flicker of a newly struck match. Or perhaps it was only the sun. Allen sipped carefully at the remaining wine, trying to read his captor's handsome face.

Tyki sighed delicately and looked out toward the window. The cicadas had begun to sing, their voices melding together in a hum that made the heavy air vibrate with energy. He spotted one of the flying ants that typically came after the rains, flying erratically up from the garden before beating itself senseless against the window.

"You slept very late today," He said suddenly, "Are you feeling well?"

Allen's eyes snapped up from the napkin he was gazing at. "Oh, yes, I am quite fine. I was very tired."

"You do not do well with the heat." Tyki observed, refilling his glass and standing up. He reached into the lower compartment of the wicker table and pulled out a hand fan. He opened it with a loud crack and handed it to Allen. "Keep yourself cool." He said, and quickly left the room.

Allen considered the fan, and practiced snapping it open like Tyki had done, though it proved difficult to do with his chained left hand. The fan was crafted in the Spanish style, with intricately carved cutouts on the boning and a picturesque country scene painted on the fabric. The edges were leafed with gold. Allen fanned himself lightly with it for a while, watching the picture blur with each movement. Soon his elbow began to hurt, so he placed it on the wicker table and lay down, closing his eyes. The heat drained him, and he soon was asleep again.

Tyki pressed his ear to the door, listening carefully for the sound of even breathing. Cautiously, he let himself melt through the wood and into the cool bedroom. A light wind stirred the curtains and shook the orchids on the coffee table, and Allen rolled over in his sleep. Tyki froze, his heart beating like a hummingbird's at the sudden movement. After a few tense moments, he moved silently towards the bed, keeping his eyes on the cursed left arm.

Tyki watched his captive's chest rise and fall evenly with each breath, head tucked close to his shouler. The fingers of his hand twitched faintly, reacting to some faraway dream. Tyki sat down, and the old bedsprings sagged with his weight, the stone floor turning a cold cheek against the kiss of his bare feet. He reached out a hand to shake the boy awake, irritated that he'd fallen asleep so fearlessly, but stopped, overcome with the notion that he didn't really want to disturb him. _So peaceful…_

He let his hand rest briefly on Allen's knee, poking out from beneath the sheet, then stood and walked silently out of the room, thinking hard.

* * *

 

_Portuguese in this chapter:_

_Bianca, traga-nos um Rose, por favor,.-Bianca, bring is some Rosé, please. (Rosé is a light pink wine)_

_Sim senhor—yes sir._

_Obrigado, linda.—thank you, beautiful._

_Como está sua mãe?—how is your mother?_

_Melhor, obrigado senhor.—Better, thank you, sir._

_Muito bom. Diga-lhe olá para mim.—Very good. Say hello to her for me._


	4. Calor

When Tyki came in the room late in the morning, loosening his shirt to find some repose from the heat, he was terribly alarmed, finding Allen in a near-feverish state on the bed.

"My dear boy, you are as green as a corpse! What is the matter?"

"It is the heat." Said Allen, panting a little. "I feel dreadful."

Tyki raised his eyebrows and twisted his slim lips in thought. "It was hotter yesterday."

"Yes, but today it is _sticky,_ like it has never been."

"Oh, it has been. Sometimes weeks at a time. But never mind, would you like a little Blanc? It will cool you down."

"It's ten o'clock in the morning!"

"Maybe so, but time and heat are two different things. Yes or no?"

  
Allen sighed, and sat up. "No."

"Suit yourself." Tyki said, shrugging. "I will have Bianca bring some juice, if you want. It will take a little while, though."

He leaned over the patio balcony and called, and presently Bianca appeared on the lawn below.

Tyki chatted with her for a moment in Portuguese and she left, reappearing in the room several minutes later with a pitcher of bright yellow juice.

"What _is_ that?" Allen asked, considering the small black pips that drifted through the sunny liquid.

"Maracujá." Tyki replied, pouring a glassful for both of them. He slid his long fingers around the perspiring glass and took a small sip, feral eyes watching Allen over the rim of the glass.

"I've been meaning to ask, coração, where is that little golden golem that follows you about?"

Allen looked up from his juice. "Timcanpy?" A small ache awakened in his heart, and he sighed. "He is with my master."

Tyki's slim eyebrows shot up to an alarming height. "Cross is back? Good heavens, I wonder how _that_ is going over. That man is an utter torment to everyone."

"Oh, you've no idea." Allen said, massaging his temples. The mere thought of his teacher had prompted a sudden massive headache. "And it does _not_ help that your bizarre cousins or whoever those two are come complaining to _me_ about their debts!"

"Who, Jasdero and David?" Tyki said, tapping a cigarette on the table. "You mustn't pay them any mind. They're both completely incompetent." He spoke around the cigarette as he lit it and extinguished the match with a flick of his wrist.

"Relatively speaking, of course." Said Allen. "They seemed to be quite capable of causing problems for employees of the Order."

"Well! My dear, eloquent as your answer was, you have _not_ seen the worst of it. Not in the least. Jasdero and David are a bit like…like the odd relatives that you don't really like but feel obliged to because they are family, useless as they may be. They don't contribute much to the wellbeing of the clan."

"Ah. Well, I suppose I wouldn't know. Family is a somewhat new concept to me." Said Allen, gazing out into the garden. Up the side of the mango tree grew the kind of vines that would defeat the garden shears with what seemed like sheer malice. Every morning the gardener's boy would climb up, using the vines as his ladder, and fill a basket of the ripe golden fruit. Where he procured these from, Allen could not tell—he couldn't see a single mango that was not green on that tree.

"You look sad, amor. I take it you are missing someone?"

"Yes. I had hoped to return swiftly to my friends at the Order. However…" He looked venomously at Tyki. "Things did not seem to go as planned."

"On the contrary. They have gone exactly as I planned." He paused, folding his hands. "Se posso, querido, out of curiosity, you are a virgin, no?"

"What—That is too forward, Mikk!"

"Ah! I knew it. Bom, is there no-one at the order that catches your fancy? What about the Chinese girl? She is quite lovely. Or perhaps…the young man with the red hair? You would prefer him?"

"How dare you…!"

"Ah. That is a terrible face you are making, meu anjo. And with that, I shall go." He stood and gathered the glasses and now-empty pitcher. "If you will please excuse me, querido, I have some work to do."

He did not return until much later that afternoon, as the day was dying in a glow of warm golden light.

Tyki pulled up one of the wrought-iron chairs of the patio set and took out a little silver case of rolling papers and another of dark tobacco.

Allen had watched him every day. He would sit in the patio outside the bedroom, rolling his cigarettes in creamy white paper and smoking alone, the look in his yellow eyes lapsing into some form of nostalgia as he did so by the slow light of the evening. His feet would be up on the chair across from him, his narrow ankles bare to the humid night. Unlike most he wore no shoes in the house, choosing instead to pad with bare feet across the polished wood and white marble. As he watched him, Allen felt a gentle tugging at his heart, soft as a little spider stringing her line between him and the virtueless man who imprisoned him.

* * *

_Translations:_

_Meu Anjo: My Angel_

_Coração: Heart_

_Bom: Good, very well_

_Se posso: If I may_


	5. Capoeira Mata Um

It was the hottest day the year had seen yet. The sun beamed malevolently through the open window and on to the bed, already searing despite the early hour. Allen thrashed vexedly awake, tangling the sheets, and rolled away from the bright rays for fear of catching on fire. He made a loud noise of annoyance as his lungs sucked in pitilessly hot air.

"How is it so monstrously _hot_?" He groaned, fanning himself with a bit of stationery from the bedside table.

"It takes some getting used to." Said a voice from the doorway, and Allen looked up to see Tyki, his shirt half-unbuttoned and without his customary gloves. He did not look quite as sharp under the strain of the oppressive mugginess—Allen could see the gleam of perspiration at his temples and across his high cheekbones. He came over to unchain one of the boy's arms from the bed, his tanned face flushed with the heat. Allen found himself reddening at their proximity, and quickly averted his eyes. He hoped the older man hadn't noticed him watching a bead of sweat make its lazy way down the dark skin of his breastbone.

Tyki stood, gazing about thoughtfully. "It is cooler in here." He said. "You will stay in here today. For your own wellbeing, I hope you know. It is quite literally hell in the rest of the house."

He paused, fixing his sleeve. "In fact…I think I will stay in here too."

Allen cursed inwardly. He had hoped to look about a little more of the house that day, to get an idea of their location and how easy it might be to run back to the town. Aside from that, a beastly little voice was reminding him how if he could hardly keep his eyes off the Portuguese _now_ , how difficult it would be for an entire day.

He sighed, propping the pillows up and leaning against them, noticing that Tyki had thrown open the French doors and was now sitting on the patio. From somewhere out in the garden the sound of a guitar drifted up, curling lazily through the motionless air. Allen strained his ears to hear better, trying to quiet his breathing so he might recognize the melody. It was nothing like he had heard before.

"Who is playing?" He asked.

"Maureo is serenading the cook again…" Tyki replied, leaning his head back against the chair.

The boy paused. "Could you unchain me? So I may come and listen?"

Yellow eyes turned towards him, quietly sizing him up for the umpteenth time.

"You said yourself that you would be staying here. It's not as if I could escape." Allen pushed. "I won't try to run."

Tyki blinked several times, and Allen noticed at that moment how long the man's eyelashes were.

At length he replied; "Very well. Though I will hold you to your word. If you try to run I will kill you before you can draw a breath."

He stood, sauntering over to the bed, and produced what appeared to be a little piece of silver filigree. Allen realized that it was the key as Tyki inserted it into the lock and the pressure on his wrist was suddenly released.

Tyki made his way back over to the patio, taking a pillow from the wicker chair and stretching his long body out on the tiles. Allen was suddenly aware of the difference in tone between the terracotta and the olive skin of Tyki's wrists. The Portuguese arched his back and stretched his arms above his head, cringing at the muffled reports of his joints and settling back down. The stretch had pulled his white shirt out of where it had been tucked into his trousers, exposing a thin line of smooth skin—just where his hipbone jutted out above his belt. He rolled onto his side and selected a cigarette from the small silver case beside him. Allen noticed it was one of the several he had rolled the previous night, in the blue-tinged paper.

"You smoke too much." He observed, crossing his arms.

Tyki looked up, a thin trail of smoke winding up from the cigarette. "You are too British."

Allen opened his mouth to counter, but found nothing to say.

A small butterfly with marvelous red and yellow wings lit on the balustrade near him and walked a little circle, fanning itself gently. Allen watched it delicately test each spot on the wood before putting a tiny foot down, and finally coming to rest quite close to his knee. He let his eyes fall half-closed, his mind drifting to England and his friends at the Order. _Lavi would be in Belarus right now,_ he thought, _and Lenalee in Scotland. How I miss them…_

He was roused sharply from his reverie when a great clamoring erupted below. Jumping up, he came running to the balcony to see what all the commotion was about.

It seemed a parrot had settled itself on the topmost branch of the

mimosa tree, singing nonsense punctuated with the occasional "Amor Vincit Omna! Unhand me, you scoundrel! Long live the Republican Party!" in raucous Portuguese, the last of which was most certainly _not_ a welcome cry to friends of the Empire.

"Tyki, come look! There's a parrot in the garden!" He called excitedly, unwittingly dropping the aloof façade he had worked so hard to perpetuate throughout the day.

The dark man appeared beside him, a cigarette dangling dangerously from his lips. He frowned in distaste. " _Filho da puta!_ It's the neighbour's bloody turkey! That thing should be shot!"

'Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!' The parrot repeated.

Tyki seemed genuinely distressed by the appearance of the parrot, as did the servants, who were shouting and throwing fallen mangoes at it in an attempt to scare it away. After a few minutes, Tyki turned around and ran off, his rage apparent as he appeared down in the garden along with the servants. Bianca and the cook were gesturing wildly and trying to explain what had happened, while their employer calmly picked up a mango, and, winding up as if to pitch a cricket ball, and flung the fruit so it knocked the bird right off the branch with a puff of green feathers and an indignant squawk. The gardeners ran off to retrieve the creature, and Tyki strode back into the house, appearing on the veranda with astonishing promptness. He sank into one of the wicker chairs, rubbing his brow to uncrease it, and felt about for a glass of wine he had put down earlier. "Is there no rest for the weary?"

He took a generous swig of wine and laid his head back, gazing for a long time through the ornate skylight above them.

A voice rose suddenly up from the lawn. "Senhor Tyki!"

Tyki stood and looked over the balcony. A young man—Allen recognized him as the gardener—stood looking up from the lawn below. "Vem dançar!"

"Um momento!"

"What is happening?" asked Allen. "Did the parrot escape again?"

Tyki turned back on his way to the door. "I am going to leave you here. Behave yourself."

Allen moved to the balustrade and watched as Tyki, feigning reluctance, joined a circle of servants.

Bianca approached him, a strange object in her hand—apparently a bow with some sort of gourd attached to the bottom. "Cantará para nós, Senhor?"

"Ah, Bianca, eu não canto há muito tempo…"

"Oh por favor?"

"Sim! Cante para nós, Senhor!"

Tyki laughed, a genuine laugh. It was a beautiful sound. "Muito bom. Cantarei uma canção."

He took a stick from the woman beside him and used it to strike the string of the bow a few times, eliciting a series of low, musical twangs. Tapping with his foot, he began to strike out a rhythm. High-low low, High-low low. Some of the servants picked up their own instruments; shakers, claves, a small bongo drum. They mimicked his rhythm, some adding their own touches to the music. Tyki began to sing, and Allen strained his ears to hear.

_Zum , zum , zum , capoeira mata um_

The others repeated the line, their smiles growing wide.

_**Zum , zum , zum , capoeira mata um** _

Tyki sang again, nodding at one of the cook's children to clap her hands.

_Agora eu vou falar , quem quiser pode ouvir_

_Quem quiser diga não , quem quiser diga que sim_

_Agradeco a escravidao , quem quiser que ache asneira_

_Se não fosse o escravo , não existia a capoeira , zum zum zum_

_Zum , zum , zum , capoeira mata um_

Everyone else joined in, harmonizing with Tyki's warm voice.

_**Zum , zum , zum , capoeira mata um** _

At this, Maureo and another young man jumped into the circle and bent low, swaying on their heels. They performed cartwheels and sweeping kicks over each other's heads, always keeping in time with the music.

_O filho do meu patrao , ia para a escola estudar_

_e a caneta do escavo , era o carnaviar , zum zum zum_

The other dancer, who Allen now recognized as one of the gardeners, jumped up and performed three backflips in succession.

 _Zum , zum , zum , capoeira mata um "_ Muito bom, Aleixio!" Tyki cried, interrupting his singing.

_**Zum , zum , zum , capoeira mata um** _

_Cuidado com o preto velho , ele pode machucar_

_No tempo da escravidao, ja jogava o pe pro ar, zum zum zum_

_Zum , zum , zum , capoeira mata um_

_**Zum , zum , zum , capoeira mata um** _

As the song ended everyone burst into applause, and the cook's two little daughters flung themselves at Tyki's legs, clinging to them like tiny sloths. He scooped one up into his arms and blew a raspberry against her cheek, making her shriek with laughter.

One of the male servants stepped into the ring, tapping Tyki on the shoulder and adopting a challenging stance. His teeth shone shockingly white in contrast to his dark skin and Allen could see the formidable power in his muscled arms and back even at a distance.

With a sigh and another wry smile, Tyki unbuttoned his shirt and passed it and the bow-like instrument to one of the servants, and shook his legs one at a time before adopting the same stance. The sun made the skin of his back glow with warm gold, accentuating the beautiful leanness of his body.

The two men gripped each other's hands for a moment, and then the music began;

_Oi sim sim sim_

_Oi não não não_

Tyki ducked quickly under his opponent's arm, bending into a handstand and cartwheeling to the side to avoid a leg sweep. The other man flipped forward and ducked right as Tyki swung two swift high kicks over his back.

_Mas hoje tem amanhã não_

_Mas hoje tem amanhã não_

**_Oi sim sim sim_ **

**_Oi não não não_ **

The cook's daughters parroted the chorus at the tops of their voices as the two men performed a flying cartwheel past each other.

**_Oi sim sim sim_ **

**_Oi não não não_ **

The servant stood on his hands and quickly lifted one arm, then the other to avoid a leg sweep from Tyki, then bent back into a bridge as his employer backflipped nimbly over him.

_Mas hoje tem amanhã não_

_Olha a pisada de lampião_

Both men sprang to their feet and began doing a simple back-stepping movement, grinning wildly at each other. The sweat made their bodies shine like fish's in the sun, and Tyki's hair had long escaped from its ties, flying wildly as he flung himself into dizzying spinning jump kicks.

_**Oi sim sim sim** _

_**Oi não não não** _

_Oia a pisada de lampião_

_Oia a pisada de lampião_

Allen found himself holding his breath as Tyki and the other man launched into a series of flying back handsprings, missing each other by an impossibly narrow margin.

**_Oi sim sim sim_ **

**_Oi não não não_ **

The music ended and Tyki bent down and placed his hands on his kness. Half-laughing, half-panting, he combed his raven hair back from his forehead. Allen followed his elegant movements as he moved about, talking to the others and smiling his bewitching smile.

To his disappointment, Tyki slipped his shirt back on, exchanged a slap on the back with his opponent, and disappeared into the house, leaving Allen leaning dangerously over the banister. The quiet click of the lock alerted him to the older man's return, and he sprang back from the railing, feeling dreadfully guilty.

"What _was_ that?" Allen asked in a voice full of wonder as Tyki came through the door.

" _Capoeira_. Dance-fighting." The dark man replied, dashing a bead of sweat from the bridge of his nose. "Why? Did you like it?"

"It was…beautiful. I have never seen anything so…" he searched for the words, gesturing wildly. "…Joyous. And yet so powerful. With the music, and, and your singing! Would that I could see it again."

Tyki shrugged. "It is just a game."

He picked up his book and pretended to read again, but his mind was working furiously, recapitulating and analyzing everything said that day.

By that evening, Tyki had thought of nine hundred and ninety seven names for Allen Walker. Some were one word, and some were several, and they rolled about sweetly on Tyki's tongue, hanging on his lips and waiting to be accidentally uttered. He had to be very careful to keep them in check, though sometimes, ever so softly, one of the beautiful names would attach itself to a breath and he would sigh it without thinking. Allen would sometimes look up with a little frown and say "I beg your pardon?" and Tyki would have to catch himself, dismissing it as internal musings about his book.

He was glad that his eyelashes were long enough to disguise the fact that he was staring at Allen through them instead of reading, wondering just how soft that curious white hair was.

He retired quite late, just as the moon was reaching its zenith among the countless rivers of stars above them.

"I am going to bed. I will lock you again," He said, coming over to Allen and pulling the key from his pocket. "I shall unlock you in the morning."

Allen frowned. "Could you just not lock me up at all?"

"No." replied Tyki simply, picking up the handcuffs and chain from the little table. "Come here."

The boy obliged, albeit reluctantly, and let his wrist be chained to the bedpost. "I would not run away if you didn't chain me."

"I am afraid I cannot trust your word. Exorcists in general, I cannot trust."

Allen pulled at the long chain, sighing, and stretched himself out on the mattress. "Good night then, I suppose."

"Boa noite, querido." Tyki said, quietly closing the door.

There was a silent pause, then the bolt clicked audibly shut. Allen sighed again and closed his eyes.

* * *

_**Translations:** _

_Filho da Puta!: Son of a bitch!_

_Boa noite: Good night_

_Vem dançar!: Come dance!_

_Um momento: One moment_

_Cantará para nós, Senhor?: Will you sing for us, sir?_

_Eu não canto há muito tempo: I have not sung in a long time._

_Por favor?: Please?_

_Sim! Cante para nós, Senhor!: Yes! Sing for us, sir!_

_Muito bom. Cantarei uma canção: Very well, I will sing one song._


	6. Lições

Allen couldn't sleep. It was far too hot, the night sounds were deafening, and he could not get Tyki out of his mind.

He shifted onto his back and squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think of the older man.

_You want him._

_I don't._

_Look at yourself. You're like an animal in heat. Just from the thought of him._

_It's wrong._

_You're going crazy._

Tyki's face drifted into his imagination and he slid his hand below the sheets, no longer caring about self-control. No one could see him. He would do it just enough to alleviate the pressure glowing like a sun between the bones of his pelvis.

He bit back a moan as he began to move his hand.

"Oh—"

_He's far too old._

_Do you honestly care?_

"Ah—Tyki…"

_This is a sin._

_But you need him._

… _I need him._

Allen felt his orgasm rising like a phoenix in his core, burning him from the inside.

"Oh, God! Oh, God! Tyki!"

He caught the white stream with his other hand, quickly wiping it on a pillowcase and flinging the evidence under the bed. He lay prostrate with the sheets over his head, counting the seconds until his pulse finally slowed and the light cotton began to suffocate him with the heat of his own body. Turning away from the door, he tucked his knees to his chest and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Tyki appeared in the morning, as usual, his sleeves rolled up, his tie undone, but a cup of juice in his hand as opposed to his customary glass of wine. Allen squirmed under the terrible heat and the Noah's level gaze, the knowledge of the sullied pillowcase smoldering in his mind.

"Are you hot, amor?"

"Do you need to ask?" he snapped.

Tyki looked amused. "Touchy. I came to find some respite from the heat on the patio. Will you join me?"

"Absolutely not. I cannot endure you _and_ this atrocious weather."

The Portuguese feigned offence. "Why, what a mean thing to say! And I had thought we were beginning to get along."

"We were doing no such thing."

"My, you are in a terrible mood today. I was thinking I would unlock you from the bed, but I suppose not, considering your sudden rudeness."

Allen sighed noisily, resting his wrist over his eyes. "This _must_ be hell."

Tyki rolled his eyes. "Well that's rather melodramatic, isn't it, darling? But if you are really feeling terrible, there is one very good way to cool down."

"And what, pray tell, is that?"

"Taking a cold bath, of course."

"Hm. That _does_ sound nice."

"Excellent. I will tell Bianca to draw us a bath immediately."

"Wait, _us?_ "

Tyki frowned. "Yes 'us', we're both overheated, and what is the point of wasting so much water? It's not so expendable here as in England." He said irritably.

"I am _not_ taking a bath with you! It's completely indecent!"

"What is indecent about it? It is not as if we will be _naked_."

"W...we won't?"

"Deus meu, no. Unless you want to, of course. I, personally, will be clothed. It keeps one cooler longer to have wet clothes."

The string on Allen's heart tugged in disappointment. "I…I suppose that it's all right."

"Wonderful." Said Tyki, and he strode out the door, locking it quickly behind him. Alllen could hear him calling for Bianca through the walls, and chewed on his lip. He wished that he could consult a bible, to see if there was some dreadful sin attributed to two men bathing together.

Bianca poked her head around the corner. "Senhor," she said, "O banho."

The bath.

Allen dallied after her, making a concerted effort not to keep up with her businesslike pace.

She opened the door for him and he marveled at the expansive room, tiled from floor to ceiling in pure white marble. The ensuite to his room was luxurious, he had thought, but the master bathroom had the glory of a Roman bathhouse, complete with Doric columns to support the vaulted ceiling. Tyki was already in the bath, his wet hair clinging to his face like serifs of ink and his arms slung over the rim of the tub. He gave a foxlike grin when he saw Allen.

"I see you decided to remain clothed." He noted wickedly.

Allen lifted his chin to hide his creeping blush. "I am a Christian man, Mikk."

"I would not go so far as to call you a _man_ , exorcist." His tone was intentionally mocking and it made Allen dig his nails into his palm, leaving delicate crescent-moons along his lifeline.

Tyki broke his livid reverie. "Well, are you going to join me or stand out there and perish in the heat? Or are you afraid I'll turn into a shark and swallow poor captive Jonah?"

 _Jonah was swallowed by a whale._ Allen thought bitterly as he sank one bare foot into the cool water.

The fabric of his trousers clung immediately to his leg and he half-slipped into the tub, sending a small wave rolling towards Tyki. The older man gave a snort of amusement and stretched out his legs until they almost touched Allen's calf. Allen pressed himself into a corner, trying to avoid any contact. Tyki ignored him, splashing water over his face and hair and leaning back against the tiles. His white shirt billowed under the surface like the tail of a fighting fish and Allen slowly began to relax, cautiously slinging his arms over the edge of the tub and enjoying the feeling of being partially warm, partially cold.

It was less than an hour before the bath became lukewarm from the heat of the air and their bodies.

Tyki climbed out first, one long leg at a time, and left a path of little puddles into the bedroom.

Allen splashed his face and followed suit, patting his hands dry nervously on a thick towel.

Tyki stood with a hand braced against the frame of the patio door, rubbing the back of his neck with his other.

"It is still too hot." He declared.

He walked about the room agitatedly, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He let out a sudden muttered curse, pulled the still-damp dress shirt over his head and tossed it on the chaise. Allen stared as the older man's smooth olive skin was revealed all at once, feeling both incredulous and completely mesmerized at the same time. Tyki stretched his arms over his head, settling his joints into place with a roll of his shoulders.

"Much better." He sighed, bringing his hand to his hair. The dark locks wove themselves like things alive about his fingers, curling gently away as he pushed through them, shaking them out. A little spark—like the flicker of a candle in the wind— crossed his face then, and with an absolutely sinful curve of his lips, he turned his eyes on Allen, who was trying his very best not to look. He said nothing, but advanced slowly, until his knees hit the edge of the bed. He moved at a strangely slow pace, as if through honey, lowering himself until one hand was placed on either side of Allen, effectively trapping him.

"What in god's name are you doing, Mikk? Get off me at once!" Allen snapped, trying to slip out from under the older man.

"As you wish." Said Tyki, and in one swift movement yanked Allen up off the bed and held him by his wrists.

"What do you think you're—"

"You know exactly what I am doing, menino. I see how you look at me. I heard you last night."

Allen's gaze began flying nervously about the room. "W-What exactly do—"

"Don't deny it. Crying the sounds of _êxtase,_ as you touch yourself? Crying my name? Unmistakable, meu amor."

"How dare you! Why would I give myself over to…to such a _disgusting_ sin?"

This drew a sudden laugh from the Portuguese, and his eyes became like the glowing coils of mosquito incense Bianca placed on the balcony at night. "A sin? Perhaps it is, but you don't truly expect me to believe those… _incredible_ sounds you were making…" He brought his face closer to the exorcist's. "…Were simply sleeptalking?"

"Let go!" cried Allen, struggling against the dark man's grip. Tyki waited patiently for the boy to calm, and when he failed to do so, made to push Allen down. To his surprise he met with iron, and Allen threw his slight weight into Tyki's chest with all his might, knocking him to the floor. The exorcist now sat straddling his captor, gasping for breath.

Tyki smirked up at him. "I'm curious, querido, what were you planning on doing after you got me down here?"

Allen turned the colour of chili peppers and made to stand up, and Tyki's arm shot out and pulled his head down. "Ah-ah-ah-ah, nao ha pressa." He said, and pressed their lips together.

The effect of the kiss shot like a bullet from Allen's head to the pit of his stomach, where it melted into quicksilver.

After a moment, they broke apart. "Oh." He said.

Tyki chuckled and quickly rolled over on top of Allen. He lowered his head to lick at the boy's collarbone.

"Vamos jogar? I think you want to."

Allen tried to arch away from the trespassing lips. "I don't!"

Tyki smirked, glancing up at him. "Are you quite sure? It seems to me…" He trailed his tongue lazily up Allen's abdomen, feeling the taut muscles jump at the sensation. "That your… _gorgeous_ lips say no, but your body says yes."

Allen opened his mouth to retort, but Tyki's mouth found a sensitive spot on his hipbone and a hoarse moan came out instead.

"Mmm, how beautifully your body betrays you, amor." Said Tyki, letting his lips hum against the boy's ivory skin. "But let us move to the bed, for comfort's sake."

He lifted Allen off the ground by the waist and threw him onto the mattress, straddling his hips to keep him down.

Tyki deftly unlocked the handcuffs from the bedpost and locked them around Allens' slim wrists, twisting the long chain around his arms.

"Finally, a more practical use for these." He murmured.

"Let me go, Mikk!"

"No."

Tyki sunk his teeth into the white skin, leaving a scarlet mark and drawing a sharp cry from Allen. He could feel the beginnings of his arousal stinging the back of his neck and tightening cruelly in his stomach, and he growled lustfully, raking his short nails down the exorcist's flat, muscular stomach. He gently placed his teeth over Allen's throat in an animalistic show of dominance, feeling the strong, fast pulse pounding beneath his tongue.

" _Meu."_ He breathed against the young man's ear. _"Tu_ _és_ _meu_."

"W…wha-"

Allen's question was cut short as the Noah caught his lips in a near-painful kiss. His fingers made short work of the young man's belt and pants, and he flung the garments at a nearby chair. His mouth worked a languid pace down Allen's stomach and up again, his tongue painting shining rivers across the snowy flesh.

He paused, and Allen drew a shuddering breath, unable to move for the shock.

Tyki smiled, now assured of Allen's cooperation. He reached up and unlocked the handcuffs, letting them dangle from the exorcist's pale wrist. He nipped at the younger man's inner thigh, feeling his trousers tighten at Allen's small gasp, and took him into his mouth all at once, engulfing the boy's member in warmth and heat. Allen cried out his pleasure, throwing his head back against the pillow.

At this, Tyki chuckled, humming around the pale shaft and drawing thick spirals with the flat of his tongue.

Allen watched him in between the intermittent sparks that swam before his eyes, feeling his release building in his stomach, when Tyki took his mouth away.

"Ah, don't stop." Allen whined, arching his hips towards the dark man's smirking lips.

"Beg." Tyki said simply, nipping at the exorcist's pale hipbone.

"Please…please."

The Noah lowered his head once more, running his long tongue from the base to the tip of Allen's shaft before sucking eagerly.

Allen writhed beneath him, almost sobbing with ecstasy as every nerve froze and melted with each movement of Tyki's mouth. His thoughts struggled as if stuck in honey and, moments before his release, they surfaced with a sudden shock of lucidity. He braced one hand on Tyki's tanned shoulder and pushed the older man back, though his entire body sang with protest at the removal of Tyki's incredible mouth. Yellow eyes locked on his in an unspoken question. Allen slid one hand down Tyki's muscular side, shyly exploring the subtle curve of his waist, the sharp angles of his narrow hip. He looked up into the dark man's eyes—half-lidded with lust and almost the colour of mangoes in the fading sunlight—and said; "Kiss me."

Tyki let his head fall and crushed their lips together, drinking in the scent of Allen's skin—a scent like wind and metal and clean linen. The boy's pale hand clenched into a fist, and Tyki gently closed his dark one around it, running his thumb over the battle-roughened knuckles. His hand almost covered all of Allen's, and he could feel it trembling like a dove, cold against his own burning skin. Tyki slid his tongue from the white hollow of his throat to his ear, making the boy groan and arch towards him. "Mmm, Tyki…"

Tyki laughed darkly. "What do you want, love? Um beijo na boca? Aqui? Tell me."

"I…I want…you to…"

Tyki bit gently on the exorcist's nipple. "Que, amor? Que queres?"

"Ah—! Please, Tyki."

"Please what?"

"You know!"

"I assure you I've no idea."

"I want…you. Inside me."

Tyki stood and undid his belt, stripping off the sharply pressed pants in one smooth motion. He stood naked before Allen, the evening sun turning his skin the colour of dark honey and weaving threads of cinnamon into his black hair, and Allen stared in fearful awe of the powerful being in front of him.

Each breath the dark man drew was like a bellows feeding the furnace of his body, making his eyes glow like hot embers. He approached the boy slowly, gracefully—each muscle in his body visible beneath his dusky skin as he walked soundlessly towards the pale prey-creature on the bed. There was no similarity between them in that moment; once out of his tailored clothing, the gilded cage of propriety was unlocked and the Portuguese became something Allen did not recognize, some magnificent, unholy jungle creature that he both feared and longed to touch.

The sultry danger of the New World, the raw and savage emotion in his yellow eyes, and the unfathomable passion of his dark Latin blood made him at once apple and serpent, and it made Allen shiver as he drew near.

Sitting down on the bed, Tyki reached out a hand and ever so gently traced a line from Allen's knee and up the inside of his thigh. The dark man's fingers had not lingered, yet Allen knew he would feel the memory of the touch burning for days after. He let his eyes fall closed, small, nervous breaths rushing past his trembling lips. Another pair of lips brushed his own, and he could smell the smoky, spicy tang, like cigarettes and pepper, that he had come to recognize as Tyki.

He gasped as Tyki's hand took hold of his member, the rough pad of his thumb grazing the head quickly. He placed a kiss on Allen's white stomach before spitting in his hand and coating his own shaft.

"Ready?" He asked.

Allen nodded, and he pushed the head into the tight passage.

"Haaah! No, stop!" Allen yelped, pushing against Tyki's shoulders.

"Are you all right?"

"It hurts."

Tyki pushed the boy's bangs out of his face. "Relax. Breathe." He said, stroking the white hair as he eased in further.

"Ah, stop, stop. It hurts."

"Shh, breathe. I won't hurt you."

Allen opened his eyes to look at the man above him, a sky of cinnamon skin decorated with beads of glittering perspiration like stars. His toned arms were shaking from the effort of restraint, the hard muscles of his stomach jumping as he forced himself not to split the younger man in two. Allen reached up and touched his face, brushing the muscles of the Noah's clenched jaw. He bit his lip tentatively and took a deep breath, accustoming himself to the strange sensation.

"I'm ready." He said.

"Are you sure?"

The exorcist nodded, unable to tear his eyes from that scorching gaze. "Don't hold back."

The impact of Tyki's thrust shook the vase off the bedside table and it crashed to the floor, the sound joining with Allen's impassioned scream. He slid himself out almost completely before slamming into Allen again and again, relentlessly muttering words that Allen could not understand but knew were beautiful and sinful—the vowels and consonants fell whispering like a fountain overflowing from his lips, against Allen's neck and lips and eyelids. Allen moved to place one leg on Tyki's shoulder, eliciting a sharp moan from the man above him.

"Jesús!"

Allen dug his nails into the tanned shoulders as Tyki thrusts reached deeper into him. "Faster!"

Their moans became a deafening duet of howls and prayers and screamed blasphemies.

"Ay, Deus!"

"Nnn—Tyki!"

"Ah—"

"Oh Jesus!"

"Ay, _foder!"_

"Mother of God!"

"Allen—!"

Tyki sank his teeth into Allen's shoulder as they reached climax, squeezing the boy's hand so tightly that Allen was afraid that he might crush it. He felt the heat rising like a flash flood in his groin, and he screamed as it burst forth, painting their stomachs with streaks of abstract white. Tyki came soon after, filling Allen with heat like molten silver.

They lay unmoving, gasping at the merciless air. Tyki's eyes slowly opened and fixed themselves on Allen's. He smiled, gave a weak chuckle, and pressed their damp foreheads together. Allen laughed and reached up to hold his lover's face in both hands, letting his eyes fall closed as their sweat dried into salt flats in the curves of their bodies. He was already dozing by the time Tyki gathered enough strength to roll off him, and they slept through the night, hand-in-hand, pale fingers resting atop a dark palm.

* * *

_**Translations** _

__Tu_ _és_ _meu-You are mine_ _

_Um beijo na boca? Aqui?-A kiss on the mouth? Here?_

_Que queres?-What do you want?_

_Foder-fuck_


	7. Tempestade

"It is the sixth night you have been here. The devil's number." Said Tyki, pulling his suspenders onto his shoulders.

"Superstitious?" Allen smiled.

"Not in the least. I was simply making an observation on your part, based on your religion and all that." He waved his hand and adjusted the suspenders—a smart-looking set, fashioned of blue-black leather—then lit a cigarette. "Would you object to a change of scenery, meu amor?" He said, speaking partially in puffs of bluish smoke.

"Not at all!" Allen said, brightening at the mention. He was by this time very sick of the bedroom, as large and lavish as it was.

He followed Tyki down a wide set of marble stairs—they seemed to be a popular feature of the local mansions—and out the tall French doors that led to the garden.

They sat out on the lower patio, the one that jutted out like a wharf into the green of the lawn, with their sleeves and trousers rolled up to try and stay cool.

"The air is sweet tonight." Tyki said. He picked a straw boater hat that one of the servants had left behind and put it on, adjusting it at a rakish angle so it covered one yellow eye. "Let's have a drink, no?"

He produced a bottle of pale alcohol and uncorked it, sending a sweet, heady scent into the still night air. Allen eyed it suspiciously; he had a feeling that it was the kind of rotgut jungle liquor that threw judgment and decency to the wind after the first sip.

"What is that?" He asked.

"Cachaça." Tyki replied plainly, and passed the bottle to Allen.

During that night they danced savagely among the fireflies on the dark lawn, drank themselves blind on cachaça with sour lime, and made wild love among the pepper trees.

And in the morning, with a crack like a slaver's whip the sky collapsed in an apocalyptic downpour, flooding the patios and sending a hail of mangoes flying loose from the tree. And they danced in the rain and the falling fruit even more mercilessly than the night before, until the cook came to get them, scolding them for making such a commotion. Tyki managed to stagger into the house and fall asleep on the Turkish rug in the front hallway, but Allen had drunk so much cachaça that he had to be helped back inside, and he was afflicted with an fit of laughing until the tears ran down his face, which greatly alarmed the servants.

Bianca, young as she was, was the most sensible of them all, and she employed the help of the gardeners Maureo and Mateus (they were brothers and rather strong) to carry her master and his captive upstairs and put them to bed.

They slept all day and all night, each having one hundred vivid dreams about the other, until Tyki woke and rose with the sun on the eighth day, still feeling quite unsteady, and went to read. Allen did not wake until well into the afternoon, and finding the bed empty, he wandered about in nothing but his socks for a long while, until it occurred to him that his clothing was missing. Dressing seemed a terribly long process, with his head pounding and his fingers still clumsy from the wicked drink, and when he finally finished, he went to look for Tyki.

He found him in the study, surrounded by elegant leather-bound volumes, their pages swollen with the humidity and their gold embossing faded. The man was deeply engrossed in a thick tome with a handsome red cover, a small crease on his smooth brow as his eyes flickered back and forth across the page.

"Tyki?"

"Que, meu amor?"

"Do you love me?"

Tyki's eyes ceased their skittering, and he gazed down at Allen, placing the book down on his lap with a sigh. He leaned forward, brushing a soft strand of white hair from Allen's eyes with the back of his long hand.

"Yes…and no." He said, gently cupping the boy's cheek. He stared levelly into Allen's round grey eyes, holding his gaze with an intensity that Allen knew was futile to try and break.

"I _feel_ like I love you. The pain in my heart tells me that. And yet, we have known each other for so short a time. By my experience, far too short to proclaim love. Not only that, but we are supposed to be enemies. I am meant to kill you." He gave a small, sad smile. "But for now, I must say maybe."

He bent forward and gave Allen a small kiss, then stood and walked steadily out of the room.

It took all the control in his body to turn the corner into the long open hallway, and once he knew that he was out of earshot, Tyki ran. He sprinted through the house and out into the garden, past the row of banana trees and the yam garden until he stood beneath the mimosa that the parrot had landed on that one stifling afternoon. The air felt like hot ash to the lungs and his body shook with sudden fever, as if possessed by some maleficent spirit.

Tyki was not a man who prayed, in fact, he had frequently denounced God for forsaking him and remaining ignorant to the suffering of the Noah. But he prayed now. He clasped his hands in front of his chest so tightly it felt his knuckles might split and prayed rapidly under his breath. The whisper became louder until he had to prevent himself from shouting, pleading for an explanation of why he was still subject to human emotion, even after all these years of trained cruelty.

He stood there beneath the heady fragrance of the tree for a long while. A sudden wind shook the branches and sent the long filaments of the flowers raining upon his upturned face, and he sighed and covered his eyes with his hand to stop the tears that stung his eyelids. _Eu amo-o?_

Then, in a whisper that only the smallest spider, floating on a strand of web in the wind, could hear, he said;

_Yes._

* * *

 

_**Translations** _

_Eu amo-o?-Do I love him?_


	8. Nunca mais

The house stood like a great still animal in the darkness, with its many eyes shining through the thickness of the banana trees. Allen knew where Tyki would be, sleeping, sprawled beneath the clean cotton sheet that Bianca had pressed that morning. The orchid by the bed would still be wilting, purple like the dark bruises fading on Allen's skin. His eyelids with their black lashes would flutter as he wandered through his dreams until the pink streaks of dawn appeared on the horizon and he awoke to find his lover gone.

Allen turned away for the last time, following the long stone path back to the main road. The sound of the night-insects surrounded him, filling his ears until he no longer noticed it, and he knew then that all his life, he would remember the taste of sweetened cassava shared between them, and the heightened joy of shade in the afternoon when Tyki sat beside him with his swollen books. He would remember how it felt to breathe air that was so full with rain that it was hard to inhale, and to wrap his lips around a language so thick with song that it made him want to sing.

And he would have memories of those lunatic nights, the nights they spent alone, discovering emotions that neither had ever known.

As he boarded the bowing vessel, he looked out across the sprawl of the city, its few lights flickering faintly in the heavy velvet darkness, and spoke the Confiteor to the wind;

"Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater,"

He turned his palms upwards, receiving the hot, weighty emptiness of the Brazilian night.

"quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum."

He crossed himself, completing that familiar gesture that had been a comfort for so long. And yet, Allen did not feel the sin dissolve from his body with the confession, he did not feel the braids of palm binding his heart loosen nor the smell of mangoes leave his now-tanned skin. And as he watched the sparse streetlamps of the harbor die with the breath of the rising wind, he sang an unspoken prayer, one that echoed in the chambers of his mind but he knew could never leave the threshold of his lips;

_I Thank you, Our Father, for the time with which you have blessed me to love and to perhaps be loved. You alone know the reasons that drew us together. I promise to do all in my power to make fruitful the time you have given us. I beseech you, Gracious Lord, to keep him safe in your hands. Amen._

Turning away from the luminous city, he added a final aside to the high vault of the sky.

_God go with you, Tyki._

He crossed himself again, slowly, pressing a knuckle to his dry lips.

_And may we never meet again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, people seem to conveniently forget that The Black Order is a Christian organization, so hence the heavy Jesus-time at the end and Allen's reluctance to forever frolic in extramarital sodomy with his probably evil lover. 
> 
> Well, I do hope you enjoyed my little story! I worked hard on the sexy bits, yes-sir. Reviews are MUCH appreciated! Obrigado!


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